XXVI
BIG BUSINESS
Tooker fidgeted uneasily with the papers on the junior partner’s desk, moving to the safe in the main office and back again, bringing bundles of documents which he disposed in an orderly row where Mr. Gallatin could put his hands on them. Eleven o’clock was the hour set for the conference between Henry K. Loring and Philip Gallatin. Mr. Leuppold had written last week that Mr. Loring had agreed to a conference and asked Mr. Gallatin to come to his, Mr. Leuppold’s, private office at a given time. Gallatin had agreed to the day and hour named, but politely insisted that Mr. Leuppold and Mr. Loring come to his office. It would have made no difference in the result, of course, but Gallatin had reasons of his own.
At ten o’clock Philip Gallatin came in and read his mail. He had returned yesterday from his southern visit, and in the afternoon had gone over, with Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Hood, the details of the case. The matter had been discussed freely, but it was clear to Tooker, who had been present, that the other partners had been able to add nothing but their approval to the work which Gallatin had done.
His mail finished, Gallatin took up the other papers on his desk and scrutinized them carefully, after which he glanced at his watch and pressed the button for the chief clerk.
“There has been no message from Mr. Leuppold, Tooker?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
Gallatin smiled. “That’s good. I was figuring on a slight chance that they might want more time, and ask a postponement.”
“I had thought of that.”
“It wouldn’t help them. I guess they’ve found that out.”
“I hope so. But I shouldn’t take any chances.”
“No, I won’t,” he returned grimly. And then, “Mr. Markham is here, isn’t he?”
“Yes. He came early. I’ve shown him into Mr. Kenyon’s office as you directed.”
“Very good, Tooker. And I will want you, so please don’t go out.”
“I’m not going out this morning, Mr. Gallatin,” said Tooker, with a grin.
After the chief clerk had disappeared Gallatin walked to the window where he stood for a long while with his hands behind his back, looking out toward the Jersey shore. His thoughts were not pleasant ones. The words of Jane’s recrimination were still ringing in his ears. It was Henry Loring, of course, who had put all that into her head, but he blamed her for the readiness with which she had been willing to condemn him from the first, the facility with which she had been able to turn from him to another.
His idyl had passed.
He turned into the room, brows lowering and jaws set, and went to his desk again. There, at a few moments past eleven, Tooker brought in word that Mr. Leuppold and Mr. Loring were waiting to see him.
“Tell them to wait in the outer office, Tooker,” he said with a gleam in his eye, “that I will be at liberty in a few moments. I’ll ring for you.”
When Tooker had gone, Gallatin sat down again, glanced at his watch, then took up the morning paper, which he had not yet opened, and read, smiling. It amused him to think of Henry K. Loring sitting in the outer office, wasting time worth a hundred dollars a minute. It amused him so much that he dropped the paper, put his feet up on his desk, and lit a cigarette, to enjoy the situation more thoroughly. Leuppold, too, his suavity slowly yielding to his impatience, would be twisting his watch-fob by now or tapping his fat fingers on his legs, while he waited, his ease of mind little improved by the delay.
Gallatin’s smile diminished with his cigarette, and at last he looked at his watch and put his feet on the floor and rang for the chief clerk.
“You may show those gentlemen in, Tooker,” he said quietly.
Tooker glanced at the ashes of the cigarette, picked up the newspaper and put it on a chair in the corner, then laid one or two documents obtrusively open, on Mr. Gallatin’s desk. Phil watched him with a smile. Tooker was a thoughtful and cautious soul.
But he was reading the nearest document intently when Loring and Leuppold entered. He turned in his chair—rose and bowed.
“You’ve met Mr. Loring, Mr. Gallatin?” said Leuppold.
Loring dropped his chin abruptly the fraction of an inch, peering keenly about, his lips drawn in a thin and unpleasant smile. Phil Gallatin indicated a chair at one end of the table, into which Loring stiffly sat, with one arm on the table, his bull-neck thrust forward, peering steadily at the younger man, watching every movement, studying his face as though trying by the intentness of his gaze to solve the question as to whether this curiously inconsistent young man was a menace or merely a nuisance.
Gallatin laid some papers upon the table, took some others from Tooker and moved his desk chair to the table. If he felt Loring’s scrutiny, his calm demeanor gave no sign of it, for after a few commonplaces he began addressing his remarks directly to Mr. Leuppold’s client.
“I don’t propose to take up a great deal of your time, gentlemen,” he began, “and I think I can state my position in a very few moments.” He took out his watch and looked at it. “About twenty minutes, I think. The facts, as you both know, are these: John Sanborn, representing the minority stockholders of the Sanborn Mining Company, filed an injunction against the President and Board of Directors of the Sanborn Mining Company to prevent the sale of its properties and interests to the Pequot Coal Company. This injunction was lost in the Supreme Court and was appealed to the Appellate Court, when the case came into my hands. That appeal is pending. That is a correct statement, is it not?”
“It is,” said Leuppold blandly, while Loring nodded his head.
“The sale has, therefore, not been consummated and cannot be consummated until the higher court has affirmed the decision of the lower one or reversed it.”
“That is also true, Mr. Gallatin,” said Leuppold. “Proceed, sir.”
Gallatin hesitated, his brows drew together and his voice took a deeper note.
“This case, Mr. Leuppold, is one which involves not only large issues but large principles. The Sanborn Mining Company owns the most valuable coal properties, with the possible exception of those owned by the Pequot Coal Company, in the State of Pennsylvania, and until 1909 was doing an enormous business with the trade centers of the East, working at full capacity and employing an army of men in getting its coal to market. Its only rival in production was the Pequot Coal Company, of which Mr. Loring, as he has admitted, controls the majority of the stock.
“In the summer of 1909, conditions changed. The Lehigh and Pottsville Railroad Company found it impossible to furnish cars to the Sanborn mines. I have copies of the correspondence, relating to the matter: repeated letters of request on the part of the Sanborn Company and excuses on the part of the railroad company, as well as frequent promises which were never fulfilled.”
“What has that to do with the pending suit?” asked Leuppold carelessly, with an effective shrug of his shoulder.
“I’m coming to that, Mr. Leuppold. And I ask for your patience,” said Gallatin. “This failure of the railroad company to provide facilities for the shipment of the coal of the Sanborn Mines,” he continued, “is all the more remarkable when it is known that while this very correspondence was going on, its sidings between Phillipsville and Williamstown were full of empty cars, and when it is also known that the Pequot Coal Company was working on full time and shipping to New York City, alone, one hundred and fifty cars of coal a day.”
“We had contracts with the railroad,” snapped Loring. “We forced them to provide for us.”
“So had the Sanborn Company contracts, Mr. Loring,” said Gallatin.
“Really!” sneered Loring.
Tooker quickly abstracted a paper from a sheaf and handed it to Gallatin.
“Read for yourself.”
The sneer on Loring’s lips faded, and his eyes opened wider as he read. It was not a copy, but the contract itself.
“I have also a volume of evidence about the empty cars which verifies my statement. Would you care to look over it?”
“No. Go on,” growled Loring.
“Gentlemen,” Gallatin went on, enunciating his words with great distinctness. “This was discrimination—of a kind which at this time is not popular with the Government of the United States.”
“But if you’ll permit me, Mr. Gallatin,” Leuppold’s suave voice broke in, “what has this to do with the Sanborn injunction suit? And how can my client be held in any way responsible for the action of the Lehigh and Pottsville Railroad Company for its failure to fulfill its contracts to the Sanborn Company?”
Gallatin raised a protesting hand.
“I’m coming to that, Mr. Leuppold. In a moment, sir. The conditions I have already mentioned have forced the Sanborn Company practically to shut down. Coal is being mined and a few cars a day are shipped, but, as you gentlemen are well aware, dividends have been passed for two years and the value of the stock has depreciated. This much for the conditions which have caused that depreciation. The Pequot Coal Company, taking advantage of the low market value of the shares, has made an offer for the property—an offer, gentlemen, which as you both know, represents not one-twentieth of the Sanborn Company’s holdings.”
“I can’t agree with that,” put in Leuppold quickly. “It was a fair offer, accepted by the Board of Directors of the Sanborn Company, Mr. Sanborn alone dissenting.”
Gallatin arose and picked up a package wrapped in rubber bands.
“I’m ready to talk about that Board of Directors now, Mr. Leuppold,” he said quietly, with his eyes on Loring’s face, “and I’m also ready to talk about the Board of Directors of the Lehigh and Pottsville Railroad Company.”
Henry K. Loring’s expression was immovable, but Mr. Leuppold’s fingers were already at his watch-fob.
“I’m going to lay my hand on the table, gentlemen,” Gallatin went on with a quiet laugh. “I’m going to show you all my cards and let them play themselves. I’m going to prove to you so clearly that you can’t doubt the accuracy of my information or the character of my evidence that I am aware that Henry K. Loring has at the present time not only the control of the stock of the Sanborn Mining Company, but that he also controls a voting majority of the stock of the Lehigh and Pottsville Railroad Company.”
Leuppold laughed outright.
“Absurd, sir. Your statement is flattering to my client, but I beg that you will confine your remarks to the bounds of reason.”
“I will to the bounds of reason, to the bounds of fact. It’s no laughing matter, Mr. Leuppold, as you’ll discover presently. I will not speak of Mr. Loring’s connection with the railroad for a moment. Perhaps, since this conference has been called with especial reference to the injunction suit, the proof of Mr. Loring’s majority stock ownership in the Sanborn Company will be sufficient.”
“You can’t prove it without manufactured evidence.”
Gallatin flushed. “Call it what you like, it’s here—in my possession. The majority stock of the Sanborn Mining Company is now owned by Henry K. Loring, and has been voted under cover for the benefit of the Pequot Coal Company.”
“That’s a grave charge, Mr. Gallatin.”
“So grave that I thought it fairer to Mr. Loring to have him learn what I know, before bringing the matter into court.”
“You have proved nothing yet.”
Gallatin opened some papers and laid them on the table.
“I have here an affidavit of a former employee of Mr. Loring which I propose to offer in evidence.”
“Who?” growled Loring.
“One moment, please. I have also an abstract from the books of the company with entries showing the purchase of stock, the amounts, the price and the dates of payment.”
Leuppold leaned forward in his chair.
“Even you must know, Mr. Gallatin, that that’s not evidence.”
“I’m well aware of that, but when the time comes, Mr. Leuppold, I intend to call for the production of the original books.”
Leuppold raised a protesting hand and then said craftily:
“Those books are lost, Mr. Gallatin.”
Gallatin only smiled at him.
“Thanks for that information, Mr. Leuppold. For that being the case, even you will admit that my copy is admissible in secondary evidence.”
Loring’s quick glance caught Leuppold’s. The point was well taken. Leuppold covered his confusion with a magnificent gesture and a resumption of his blandest manner.
“How are you going to prove that these are copies from the books?” he asked easily.
“I will produce that evidence at the proper time.”
“Produce it now–”
“I will, if necessary.”
“That is the weakness of your case, Mr. Gallatin; you can’t produce it,” he sneered.
Gallatin turned to the chief clerk and said: “The checks, Tooker.”
Gallatin removed some slips of paper from the envelope Tooker handed him, and held them carelessly in his fingers, so that the two men, who were eying them eagerly, could see the name of the bank and the signature at the lower right hand corner.
“Perhaps Mr. Loring will deny his own signature?” he asked quietly. “These checks I hold are signed with Mr. Loring’s name, a signature with which we are all familiar, and were given to Mr. Loring’s brokers for the purchase of Sanborn stock. I may add that the date of entry on the books of the company in each case corresponds with the date on the checks, as does the amount.”
He stepped to Loring’s side and held several of the checks up just beyond his reach.
“That’s not my signature,” said Loring.
Gallatin handed the checks to Tooker.
“You’re not convinced?”
“No. It’s a forgery.”
“Then I’ll find other means of convincing you. Perhaps, if I produced a man who saw you sign those checks–”
Loring had risen to his feet and spoke but one word. It was the popular one for the infernal regions.
Gallatin smiled. And then to the chief clerk, “Tooker, show Mr. Markham in, please.”
The situation had gotten beyond the control of Mr. Leuppold, who was completely nonplused by Mr. Gallatin’s rapidity, succinctness and damnable accuracy; but he made one desperate effort to regain his lost ground.
“Markham, a broken man, a drunkard, a gambler–”
“But once Mr. Loring’s secretary,” Gallatin broke in significantly. “Wait, Mr. Leuppold.”
In a moment Mr. Markham entered. He was a tall man, with keen eyes, hawklike nose and a weak mouth. As he entered Loring turned toward the door and the eyes of the two men met, Loring’s curious, the newcomer’s eager and unflinching.
“Mr. Markham,” asked Gallatin, “do you know this gentleman?”
“Yes. He is Henry K. Loring.”
“Have you ever seen these checks?”
“Yes. I drew them and saw Mr. Loring sign them.”
“And this affidavit?”
“I wrote it.”
“And this abstract of the books of the Sanborn Company?”
“I have seen it.”
“Is it correct?”
“In every particular.”
“All right. That will be all for the present. Will you remain outside?”
“Wait, sir!” Leuppold’s voice rang out. “I haven’t finished with Mr. Markham yet.”
“You’ll have the opportunity of questioning him at the proper time and place,” said Gallatin smoothly. “That will be all, Mr. Markham.”
“I protest, Mr. Gallatin, against your methods of conducting this meeting,” said Leuppold, rising and extending a quavery arm. “You bring as your chief evidence a man once in the employ of my client, a discredited clerk, a man discharged for drunkenness, for incompetence, for dishonesty.”
“No—for honesty, Mr. Leuppold,” Gallatin broke in hotly. “That was why he was discharged. He was too honest to understand the ethics of big business and his utility was at an end. So Mr. Loring let him go. That was a mistake. He knew too much, Mr. Leuppold.”
“You’ll have a chance to prove what he knows, sir. There won’t be much difficulty in discrediting his testimony–”
“You’re making a mistake, Mr. Leuppold,” broke in Gallatin, his voice now thundering. “The question here isn’t so much one of law as it is one of morals. That injunction may be dissolved by the Court of Appeals; but I give you my word that, if you insist on carrying through that sale of the Sanborn Mines to the Pequot Coal Company, I propose to charge your client and the directors of the Sanborn Company with conspiracy, and I’ll convict them—just as sure as the Lord made little apples!”
He dominated the situation and felt it in the short hush that followed his concluding remarks, and in the rapid revolution of Leuppold’s watch charm. Loring had sunk back in his chair, both of his great hands clasping its arms, his gaze on Gallatin’s face, critical but smiling. What he saw there evidently brought a realization that Mr. Gallatin held the whip hand; for as Leuppold began speaking again, he moved one of his hands through the air and rose.
“Wait!” he said. He took two or three paces across the room, between window and door and then stood, his hands in his trousers pockets, fumbling at his keys. It was at least five minutes before he spoke again. But at last he stopped in front of Gallatin and looked at him from head to toe, and suddenly to every one’s surprise, broke out into a loud laugh.
“Mr. Gallatin, you’ve beaten me.”
Success had come so quickly and the end of the case so suddenly that Gallatin looked at his adversary, not certain whether to believe his own ears, and half suspecting some kind of a ruse or trick, the art of which Henry K. Loring, as he knew, was past grand master, when he went on again.
“I don’t propose to ask you how you found Mr. Markham out in Illinois, or to try and learn what your methods were in getting together all this evidence. I know it’s there and that’s enough. I did write those checks and the abstracts from the books are doubtless correct. I suppose,” he laughed again, “your evidence of my connection with the Lehigh and Pottsville is quite tangible?”
“Quite tangible,” repeated Gallatin, scarcely concealing a smile.
“Then all I have to say, sir, is that you are a very extraordinary young man, a very useful young man to your clients, a very disappointing one to your adversaries.” And then turning to Leuppold: “You may contest, if you like, Mr. Leuppold. I won’t. This case is one for settlement.”
Then he turned to Gallatin again, and offered his huge hand, while the younger man, still doubtful, eyed him keenly.
“You and I had words some time ago. I’m sorry for them. Will you forgive me?”
There was no doubt about the genuineness of his contrition.
“Willingly, Mr. Loring,” he said.
Their fingers clasped and their eyes met.
“I underestimated you, Mr. Gallatin,” he went on again slowly. “I don’t often make a mistake in my judgment of men, but I did of you. I’m a self-made man and people will tell you I’m a little proud of the job. But I’m not too proud to tell you that you’ve been a little too clever for me. I know when I’m beaten and I’m not afraid to say so. We’ll fix this thing up. I don’t want all the coal in Pennsylvania. I own sixty per cent. of the Sanborn stock. Sanborn’s crowd owns the rest. I’ll sell out twenty per cent. to some man agreed on and we’ll make him president.”
“At the present market figure, Mr. Loring?” asked Gallatin shrewdly.
Loring rubbed his head and smiled.
“We’ll see about that,” he muttered at last. But there was a twinkle in his eyes as he asked. “How would you like that job, Mr. Gallatin?”
Gallatin grinned.
“I’d take it, if I could get enough cars to make it profitable.”
“I reckon you can make it profitable enough, for everybody,” he growled jovially. “We’ve got to have you in with us, and that’s all there is about it. Will you accept?”
“With Sanborn’s consent, yes.”
“We’ll fix Sanborn, all right,” he finished. “Come to my office some time, Mr. Gallatin, I want to talk to you.”
Gallatin followed the two men to the elevator, while Tooker, after the door was closed, moved from one leg to the other in what he fondly believed to be a dance of joy.
XXVII
MR. LORING REFLECTS
Henry K. Loring sat back in his machine, homeward bound, his head deep in the collar of his overcoat, his eyes under their shaggy brows peering out of the windows of the limousine. His heavy hands, one over the other, grasped the handle of his cane, which stood upright between his firmly planted feet. He looked out of the windows at the quickly changing scene, but his eyes saw nothing. There was a frown at his brow, his lips were drawn firmly together and a casual glance might have lent to the belief that the great operator was weighted with a more than usually heavy financial burden. But a closer inspection would have shown a slight upward twist of his lips and scarcely perceptible puckering of the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. For a man whose business affairs had on that day been subjected to the searching inquisition that Mr. Gallatin had put them to, he seemed to be taking life rather good-naturedly.
To tell the truth he was thinking of the futile efforts of the elder Leuppold in trying to stem the tide which had set so strongly against him. He had gone over Mr. Gallatin’s evidence at the conference point by point, and the hours had only confirmed him in the realization that this young man, whom he had scorned, had given the oily and ingenious Leuppold a very unpleasant morning; for wriggle as Leuppold might, there had been no escaping the young man’s clear-headed statements, and the dangerous nature of his evidence. Henry K. Loring was a good fighter, a shrewd judge of men, and the thing that most bothered him at the present moment was, not that he had been obliged to compromise the Sanborn case, but that he should have been so mistaken in the character and abilities of Philip Gallatin. He couldn’t understand it at all, and it hurt his pride in his own judgment. Was this sharp young man with the lean face, the keen eye and the quick incisive tones of confidence in himself, was this brilliant hard-working young lawyer who had been clever enough to outwit Henry Loring at his own game, was this Phil Gallatin, the club loafer, at whose name men had wagged their heads or shrugged their shoulders in pity or contempt? It didn’t seem possible. There was a mistake somewhere. Was this the young man who–?
He sat straight up suddenly as the thought came to him. By George! This was Jane’s young man! The fellow who had found Jane up in the woods! Who had followed her around and made love to her! The fellow Jane had been in love with until he, Loring, had opened her eyes and packed him out of the house about his business. That was too bad. Loring was sorry about that now. He had done Gallatin an injustice. Curious that he should have made such a mistake. He would have to rectify it somehow—with Jane.
What was the trouble? Oh, yes, a woman—that was what had turned Jane against him. A woman—well? It wasn’t the first time a man had been led off by a woman. What of it? The Gallatin with whom he had recently become acquainted wasn’t the kind of a fellow who would let any woman get the best of him. That was his own affair, anyway. He, Loring, would have to talk to Jane. Gallatin was all right. He had quit drinking, too, the younger Leuppold had said. Any young fellow who could work up a case like that under cover and drive a man like Henry K. Loring to the wall was good enough for him! That was the kind of a man he wanted for Jane, just the kind of man to take up the game where he would leave it and hold the great Loring interests together. What did Jane want anyhow? She had loved Phil Gallatin once. Her mother had told him so. And now she had settled on Coleman Van Duyn! Hell!
He got down at his own door with a sudden resolve to find out just how things stood with Jane and Coley Van Duyn. Mrs. Loring had wanted that match. It wasn’t any of Loring’s choosing. She had wanted an old Dutch ancestry. She’d be getting it with Coley and that was about all she would get. Jane had been expected back with the Ledyards from Virginia this morning. Perhaps it wasn’t too late for her father to step into the breach and repair the damage he had done.
In reply to his question of the man in the hall, he learned that Miss Loring had returned from the South during the morning, but that she had been in her room all day. Henry K. Loring climbed the marble stairs and went along the landing to Mrs. Loring’s room. He found her lying on the divan, a handkerchief crumpled in her hands, her face stained with tears. A look of resignation that was half a frown came into Loring’s face. Like many another man, big in his walks abroad, he lost some stature in the presence of a tearful wife.
At his entrance she straightened and said irritably, “I thought you were never coming.”
“I was detained.” He looked at his watch. “Aren’t you going to dress?”
“No. I’m going to have my dinner brought up.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Oh, what isn’t the matter? Jane, of course!”
“Jane!”
“I can’t make her out at all. She came back from Warrenton this morning and went immediately to her room. I went in this afternoon again. She was looking miserably unhappy, and when I began talking to her she burst into tears–”
“Nerves?” he queried.
“Oh, I don’t know. She hasn’t been herself for some time. She’s looking very badly.”
“Yes, I noticed that. What do you think the trouble is?”
Mrs. Loring sank back with a sigh.
“Oh, I don’t know. I never did understand Jane, and I don’t suppose I ever shall. She says she isn’t going to anything this spring—that she wants to go abroad, away from everybody. And, finally, when I pressed her—she told me that she had given Coleman Van Duyn his congé. Think of it!”
The poor lady rattled on while Loring turned his back and walked the length of the room to hide a smile which grew suddenly at his lips. When she had finished speaking, he returned and questioned again.
“Why did she change her mind? Do you know?”
“I don’t think she has changed her mind. I don’t believe that she has ever cared for Mr. Van Duyn. It was all a mask to hide her real feelings. I’m sure she still loves that worthless Gallatin!”
Loring’s eyebrows lifted, his gaze roved and his lips were quickly compressed. Then his brows tangled.
“What makes you think that?” he asked.
“Everything makes me think it—everything—from the manner in which she first confessed her love for him to me to the curious way she has been treating Mr. Van Duyn. He spoke about the matter only last week. Poor fellow! He’s beginning to look very badly. Jane hasn’t treated him fairly.”
“That depends. They were never engaged.”
Mrs. Loring raised herself on one elbow, her eyes searching her husband’s face in surprise.
“There was an understanding.”
“Between you and Van Duyn. Jane never consented.”
“Henry, I don’t understand you. You’ve let this thing go on without speaking. You approved–”
“No, I didn’t approve,” he said quickly. “I merely acquiesced.”
Mrs. Loring showed signs of inward agitation.
“Oh, I give her up. I’ve done the best I could. She has behaved very badly and I—I don’t know what to think of her.” She began sobbing into her handkerchief and renewed her familiar plaint. “I do the best I can for her—for you, but you’re always going against me—both of you. I’ve tried so hard this winter—kept going when my nerves were on the ragged edge of collapse, just because I thought it was my duty–”
“There, there, Mother, don’t be foolish,” said Loring soothingly. “Jane is young, too young to marry anyway. She’ll decide some day.”
“No. I know her. She makes up her mind to a thing and she’ll cling to it until death. She’s like you in that way. She would rather die than change. I ought to have realized that. If she can’t marry Phil Gallatin, she won’t marry any one. Phil Gallatin,” she cried, “the least desirable young man in New York, a man without a character, without friends, the last of a tainted stock, a fortune hunter, dissolute–”
He let her go on until she had exhausted both her adjectives and her nerves while he listened thoughtfully, and then asked,
“You’re sure she still loves Mr. Gallatin?”
“I’ve tried to believe that she would forget him—that she would learn to care for Mr. Van Duyn. But she hasn’t. She has never been the same girl since you told her about that dreadful Jaffray woman. I’m afraid she’ll be sick—really sick. But I can’t do anything. What can I do?” The poor lady looked up plaintively, but her husband had walked to the window and was looking out into the Avenue.
“Humph!” he grunted. “Lovesick, eh? There ought to be a cure for that.”
“What?”
“Let her marry him.”
“Henry!” Mrs. Loring sat bolt upright on her couch, her eyes wide with incomprehension. “What do you mean?”
“What I say,” he returned calmly.
“That—Jane—should—marry Phil Gallatin?”
He nodded.
“You’re mad!” she said, getting up and facing him. “Stark mad! When you learned about them, you told me you’d rather see her dead than married to him.”
“Now I’d rather see her married to him than dead. It’s simple enough. I’ve changed my mind.”
“Am I taking leave of my senses—or are you?”
“Neither, Mother,” he went over to her, his huge frame towering above her small body as his mind towered over hers, and took her gently by the elbows. “I’ve made a mistake. So have you. But it’s not too late to mend it. I say that if Jane wants Phil Gallatin, she shall have him.”
“No, no. What has happened, Henry?”
“I’ve opened my eyes, that’s all, or rather Gallatin has opened them for me. I’m glad he did. And now I’m going to open yours. Phil Gallatin is a full-sized man. I found that out to-day—a man, every inch of one. I don’t care about his past. I wasn’t anything to brag about when I was a kid, and you know that, too. I didn’t amount to a hill of beans until my father died and I went up against it good and hard. I was down to bedrock, as Phil Gallatin was, until I got kicked once too often, and then I learned to kick back, and I’ve been kicking back ever since. I don’t care about Phil Gallatin’s past. That belongs to him. The only thing that matters about the man Jane marries is his future. That’s hers.”
Loring put his hands in his pockets and walked up and down the rug, his bulk, physical and mental, dominating Mrs. Loring’s tears.
“Listen to me. I’ve let you go on with your plans for Jane and I haven’t said anything, because I knew that when the time came for Jane to marry, your plans wouldn’t amount to much and mine wouldn’t either. Oh, I’ve been looking on. I’ve been watching this Van Duyn affair. I’ve never thought Jane would ever marry a nonentity like Van Duyn. If I had thought so, I guess I might have worried. But I didn’t worry because I never thought she did want to marry him. It seems I was right,” he chuckled.